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E ight of us would be granted freedom before the sun reached its midday zenith. But one of us would be chosen—it would not be me. It cannot be me , I thought. Life as a prisoner was unbearable. But life as the Blood Offering … would be unthinkable.

My stomach turned and apprehension rose, but I refused to let it crack the wall of optimism I had delicately fortified over the past month.

Freedom was moments away. It has to be, I reassured myself .

Picking a spot on the ornate floral wallpaper surrounding me, I focused on my breathing. Pink peony—inhale … white peony—exhale … Everything is going to turn out in my favor.

The extravagant wallpaper covered every inch of the palace dressing room.

As if there were not enough flowers spread from wall to wall, images of peonies, irises and daisies embellished all the permanent fixtures of the room, from the wood and silk partitions to the handles of the hairbrushes.

If this was a guest’s chamber, I couldn’t imagine what the queen’s quarters looked like.

“I don’t know why I did this,” Mallory said, pulling my attention from the next pink bloom. “I have always had the worst of luck.” She squirmed in the chair across from me. Her nervous energy was palpable as a lady’s maid finished pinning up her thick black hair.

With my focus pulled back to our situation, my heart rekindled its frantic rhythm—a sensation I had tried, and failed, to tame all morning.

Mallory’s face scrunched with unease. “Maybe I should go back, before it’s too late.”

Trying to reassure us both, I said, “Don’t back out now.

We are so close. Besides, can you imagine going back to the women’s wing when freedom is waiting down the hall?

” Resting my hand on her shoulder, I held her gaze.

“Mallory, the odds are in our favor. Hang in there. By this evening we will be dancing in celebration, and I will finally have met that charming husband of yours.”

I sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be picked.

Yes, it was her choice to participate—as it was for all nine of us filling the dressing room—but Mallory was a good one; one of the few inmates I knew who expressed genuine compassion and concern for those around her.

She shouldn’t be chosen as the Offering.

Mallory nodded, but worry shone through her soulful brown eyes.

Pulling in another long breath to settle my nerves, I looked down at the deep blue tunic flowing to my ankles and the gold sash wrapped snug around my waist. The ensemble was tasteful and also identical to those donned by the women standing nearby.

Our dresses lacked the flourishes and extra fringed layers of those fashioned in high society, yet it was the nicest outfit I’d worn since my mother passed away ten years ago.

The entire kingdom knew we were prisoners, but the king and queen wanted the ceremony to appear as an honorable sacrifice—not an act of desperation.

Thus, our appearances required molding to fit that story.

Since we had arrived at the palace early that morning, our small group had been meticulously looked after. Treated as if we were noble guests.

Regardless of the excessive feasting, preening, and bathing, an unmistakable thread of tension coiled tight throughout the room.

Naturally, the Crown sought other avenues before reaching out to the prison.

However, even with the proposal of special care and a small fortune, no free woman could be found who would willingly offer herself up for the cause.

For us prisoners, though, the Crown proposed an incentive far more valuable than a stack of coins.

They offered us freedom—that was, as long as you weren’t the one selected.

Mallory’s feet tapped restlessly under the dressing table, spurring my own anxiety. Stars , don ’ t let them call my name, I prayed. I worried the blue beads on my bracelet, spinning the largest around and around. It was the one thing I had left of my mother’s, and the only possession I owned.

What would she think of the changes in my life since her passing?

Finished with Mallory’s hair, the maid turned to me and gestured at the open seat.

I lowered myself and glanced at my reflection in the blossom framed mirror. For a moment I saw a glimpse of my mother—dark circles settled around emerald green eyes. However, her dark circles resulted from illness, and mine resulted from poor nutrition.

The maid pulled at the knots of my sandy blonde hair and divided it into sections.

Not having been trimmed since my sentencing four years ago, the strands draped well past my shoulders.

The top section was twisted tightly in a bun, pins pushed against my scalp.

The bottom half was left loose to cascade down my back.

According to the maid, it was a popular style among the noble ladies.

“The bells!” Mallory grasped my hand, her palm sweaty. The palace bells chimed repeatedly through the halls. “Ohh, it’s time … gentle winds bring us luck,” she prayed, pulling me from the chair to join her and the others near the door.

I waited for the maid to turn her back, then loosened a pin that pressed painfully against my scalp.

At the front of the room, I gathered beside the other eight women.

Like Mallory and me, they all stood abnormally quiet, fidgeting with their unfamiliar outfits, lost in fretful thoughts about the ceremony.

None of us made direct eye contact with one another, instead we exchanged fleeting glances, fear glinting in the wet of our eyes.

Remaining silent on the outside, I had no doubt that on the inside we were all pleading for the same request— please don ’ t let them choose me.

The head maid looked us over. Deeming our appearances fit for presentation, she gave a nod of approval, and the royal guards ushered us from the room. Our dresses swished in a hushed rhythm as we departed the flower laden chamber.

Mallory and I fell to the back of the group. With two guards trailing behind, we proceeded down a series of long, lofty hallways, each corridor growing more extravagant than the last. Carved moldings and luxurious details were evident at every angle, a glaring contrast to the women’s wing.

Moving down a flight of stairs, the clamor of the awaiting crowd filled the air, muffling out my thoughts.

As we drew near the grand hall, gold sconces, worth enough to feed a family for a year, decorated the florid walls, while elaborate rugs with fanciful ivy patterns lined the marble floors. Meant to inspire awe, the ornamentation only reminded me of how out of place I was among such splendor.

Clearing the final archway, my stomach dropped. Hundreds of heads turned. Conversations lulled, and necks craned … to get a better view of us nine women.

Never had I imagined that I’d be paraded in front of half of the city as a murderer and thief; nor that this would be how I would meet the king and queen.

A horn blared to announce our arrival. Mallory gripped my hand, squeezing tight.

The chamber was overflowing with spectators eager to witness the Offering Ceremony—to see which one of us unlucky souls the Crown would send to the Keeper.

Suddenly, I was thankful for the bath and fresh attire.

The thought of the scrutinizing crowd regarding us in the threadbare tunics worn at the prison made me shudder.

I wanted to turn and run, hide from all their judging glances.

Many of them took no care to mask their expressions of disgust. It didn’t matter to them what crime we may, or may not, have committed; we were all the same in their eyes—corrupted souls who deserved to be sent away.

Even though it was the sacrifice of one of our lives that would protect the entire kingdom.

The first seven women of our group filed into the assembly hall. I flashed a tight smile at Mallory and followed their lead. My knees shook as I took my first step onto the dark maroon runner.

Whispers drifted in the air, bets were made, coins exchanged hands. Which one of us would be chosen?

Somehow, my feet continued to shuffle forward, rebelling against every instinct to flee— run back to the women’s wing. It’s not too late!

I was already halfway down the aisle, before I gathered myself enough to pull from my inner turmoil and scan the crowd for a familiar face.

More than half of the city must have shown up. A middle-aged man with a hooked nose and beady eyes gawked at me as he leaned in near his neighbor. Holding my stare, his lips moved, forming the words, “The blonde toward the back.”

He was betting on me—my life, nothing more than a game to earn extra coin. I narrowed my eyes, pausing just long enough to glare back at him with disgust. Finding little satisfaction, I returned my focus to the woman’s back in front of me.

Placing one foot in front of the other, I kept pace with the group.

The front stage edged closer. A cacophony of strong perfumes assaulted my senses, indicating we were approaching the royal citizens and high court.

We cleared the bystanders and the guards lined us up shoulder to shoulder, facing the main dais.

Seated before us on an elevated platform, the royal couple waited.

Both were dressed in matching finery of crimson and gold.

Well into their sixth decade, the pair had spent my entire lifetime with a crown upon their head.

This event of life and death was likely one of hundreds they had seen play out.

As instructed, we bowed before King and Queen Trinstar.

For a moment, the room was near silent, nothing but the soft scuffling of feet and faint murmurs. My gaze drifted up, catching the hard lines that edged the royal couple’s neutral expressions. A flurry of emotions surged forward from seeing their faces so close. It felt oddly surreal, yet somber.

The king lifted a hand, signaling for the ceremony to begin. As one, the crowd straightened.